Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Years. Of. Therapy.

Strangely, this time I am not talking about me. My children. They will most likely need years of therapy. You see, their father is insane. He has an obsession. With birds. And killing them. Not all birds, just the 3 that have nested in my back porch. Where they proceed to shit all over the cushions and table and deck and everything. It is gross, dirty, disgusting and unsanitary. We eat there. The kids and dogs walk out there and then come in the. We have removed the nest, almost daily, just to have it rebuilt over night. The damn robin even laid her eggs on the wood beam with no nest!

So the birds have to go.

The other night, we were on the porch, and one of the cushions was literally PILED with bird poop. Did I mention this was the day after I had spent hours out int eh sun scrubbing the cushions with soap and water and a scrub brush to put them out for the season? No? well, it was. And this cushion had little piles of bird poop. All. Over. It. Gross. There were these two sparrow like birds. Asleep on the wire over head. Ira picked up a small bottle of Gatorade someone left on the porch. He threw it. Would you believe he hit the sleeping bird? Yeah, I wouldn't have either. Until he held up a headless bird at the kitchen window.

Yup. Headless.

Now, here is the part where my kids need therapy. The next morning? Erin asked if he kept the bird so she could see it. Serious. She was mad he didn't wake her up to see it. (He asked, I wouldn't let him, by the way)

Next weekend, birds (well, 2 out of the 3) are still around. Things. Get. Serious. Ira goes to the hunting store and buys an automatic bee bee gun. Thing shoots like 100 pellets in a nano-second.

Bird doesn't stand a chance.

Kids are running in the house all weekend yelling, "Daddy! Get your gun! The birds are her! You gotta kill them!"

Something is wrong with this. Normal children do not behave this way.

This morning I get a text message from Ira.

The Robin is dead.

I call him on my break. He said he saw the Robin and he grabbed the gun (he keeps the pellets out of it and the CO2 canister out of it all in different places, no way the kids can get to it) and puts it together and sits on the porch. There is dirt and bird crap every place. The thing built its nest. Again. For the 478th time.

He sits an waits. The robin hops down from his nest. Mocking my husband. He hops across the concrete patio and .... DT-DT-DT-DT-DT-DT-DT-DT-DT-DT-DT-DT-DT-DT! His accuracy may not be true, but with an automatic weapon, just a sweep of the hand and the bird is gone.

Ira goes inside to get something to clean up the remains. He comes out and there is Haley. Kicking the bird with her shoe.